Winter at the Gates
by TheRealSokka
Summary: The army of the dead has broken past the Wall and is marching on Winterfell. There, everyone is still unaware of the imminent danger and tensions run high between the different groups that are forced to fight together against the Night King. Jon, Sansa and Daenerys have to do their best to unite them before winter arrives at the castle. Includes lots of reunions, as you can imagine


**Winterfell**

* * *

 **Jon**

As impossible as it seemed, the storm was getting worse.

A fresh breeze of freezing air hit Jon in the face, along with a mouthful of snow. Cursing under his breath, he spat out, but in that one second of exposure his teeth had already gone numb. He pulled up his scarf further, until hardly anything of his face was visible. It didn't help much.

When they set out from Dragonstone, Jon hadn't thought that just getting back to Winterfell would be the hard part. Once again, however, he had underestimated the winter. He might be a Stark, but even for the North this cold was _harsh_ , seeping straight into the bones no matter how many layers of clothing he wore. He didn't dare imagine how his men were faring in this weather.

This was not how he had envisioned their return. If the storm didn't let up, he thought glumly, they would have to make camp soon. Then, at long last, he spied something solid in the snow: a flash of grey amidst all the white. A few moments later, it turned into the towering outer wall of Winterfell.

They had already been able to see the great castle once, hours ago, when they ascended into the hills surrounding it. From this distance, the damage that the Ironborn and the Boltons had done to Winterfell was barely visible; it looked as strong and untouchable as it had seemed in his youth. Jon had welcomed the sight: it was a small touch of something familiar amidst all the strangeness that had become his life. Then the snowstorm had hit, and - with the full force of the new winter – slowed their progress to a crawl and reduced visibility to barely a few meters. From then on, Winterfell might have still been miles away or just a stone throw ahead; it was impossible to tell. But now, finally, the great stone walls emerged from the white chaos for a second time, towering over all of them. Usually an imposing sight, now they simply promised warmth and shelter. Jon was glad for both.

 _The King in the North returns_. He glanced glumly at his Hand riding behind him. Through the swirling snow it was hard to tell, but Jon imagined Davos was looking about as weary as he felt. The Onion Knight had not uttered a word of complaint the entire journey, but he'd always felt most comfortable at sea, and as it stood, this snowstorm was the closest they would get to swimming in a long time. The man didn't look like he appreciated it.

Behind the smuggler, the shapes of armed men moved in the gloom. It was the only sign that Jon still had an army. Other than that, it, along with rest of the world, had been swallowed whole by the storm. And Jon had no way of knowing how many of his men were still there, or how many had fallen at the wayside. He feared it were many. All before they had spied even a single Wight. He had the irrational urge to draw Longclaw and whack at the snow, as if that could make it relent.

The iron portcullis was drawn up by the time Jon's party reached it and he rode into the courtyard of Winterfell. Immediately the air cleared a bit and visibility improved. Jon pulled down his scarf and breathed in the first clean air in hours. He looked over his shoulder, and saw the moving wall of white right outside the gates. Out there, the storm kept raging with undiminished force. Maybe Winterfell's ancient walls had magic hewn into them that kept it out. Or maybe they were just lucky. Jon wouldn't question it; he was just glad for every respite they got.

The respite was short-lived: The courtyard was a picture of barely controlled chaos. Almost as soon as Jon turned back around, a Dothraki slammed into him, trying his best to keep his horse moving for some warmth, and knocking away everything else in the process. Everywhere else, Northerners seemed in the process of clearing away weapon racks and supplies to make way for the army, but many were simply staring at the newcomers; some in awe, most with suspicion. Jon saw many a man clutching his spear far too tightly and too many nervous hands on sword hilts.

The tensions were palpable. Jon was worried that he might have to intervene. Not that he could really blame his men: the Dothraki were intimidating at the best of times, and the march had made everyone's temper run thin. By the stables, two riders knelt beside their horses, which didn't look like they would get up again. Winterfell guards reluctantly approached them with blades drawn to put the animals out of their misery, only to stop right in their tracks when the Dothraki jumped to their feet and raised _arakhs_ in their direction. Before it could devolve into a fight, though, Gendry jumped in to call them to order.

For a blacksmith, the bastard had a surprisingly commanding voice, enough to make the guards stand to attention without even questioning his rank. Jon decided he probably had the situation under control. He took a moment to really look at the gathered groups of soldiers. What he saw made him involuntarily shake his head: The Walls of Winterfell had seen many an army pass beneath them over the centuries, but Jon was certain none even remotely as strange as this.

For a start, the vanguard had simply never even seen snow before. They weren't equipped for it, either. The Dothraki shivered on their horses, their bare chests and legs covered in goose bumps. The reins and manes of the horses glittered with frost and showed no signs of melting. They regarded his men, and the entire castle, with wary suspicion. These were barbarians who had probably never seen a castle from within without burning it down, and who really should have no reason to fight this far north. Jon wondered what exactly Dany had done to keep them in line.

The Dothraki were accompanied by a small assortment of Manderly men that had escorted Jon's army from White Harbour. Standing far at the back, they were evidently just as uncomfortable with the Dothraki being here as the Dothraki themselves. At least their thick winter clothes made of sealskin offered some real protection, so their shaking pikes were most likely only due to their nervousness.

Then there was Jon's own guard, which included the Hound, Gendry, who was still yelling at a Dothraki, and Davos the Onion Knight – a rogue Kingsguard, two bastards and a smuggler-turned-King's Hand. They were a strange group to behold by themselves.

Finally, the rag-tag army was topped off by a long column of Unsullied, who were still passing beneath the portcullis two-abreast. They seemed as stoical about the cold weather as they did about everything else. Even the snowstorm had not stopped them from marching perfectly in sync. Even though they were almost as badly equipped for this cold as the Dothraki, they seemed to endure it a lot better. But then Jon had a feeling like they would sooner lie down in a snow drift and die than utter a word of complaint.

Shaking his head, he looked to Davos, whose weathered face looked just as troubled by what he was seeing. They exchanged a quick glance. This was the army that would have to face the Night King. If the winter itself didn't finish them first. And if he and Daenerys could hold them together for that long. Both of which weren't a given if Jon looked at them now.

"We should give the dead a fight sooner rather than later." the smuggler voiced his thoughts glumly.

"Agreed."

The Dragon Queen herself was nowhere to be seen. Daenerys had insisted on flying the last few leagues to Winterfell on dragon's back, with the reason that she wanted to scout the surroundings for herself. Jon suspected she wanted to give the men a show, landing on the walls of the castle like she had in the Dragon Pit. She was good with those theatrics. Not that Jon would complain. His men could use a good boost of morale before the war to come. However, in this snow storm, her spectacular arrival didn't seem likely to happen.

Jon dismounted. Ser Davos did the same, shaking snowflakes out of his hair. His beard looked even whiter than usual. "I've never liked the North."

"And yet here you are." Jon reminded him. A fact for which he was very grateful, in truth. Davos nodded gruffly. Meanwhile, the courtyard was getting more and more crowded, even with the majority of Dany's army remaining outside the walls. It threatened to fully turn into chaos. Jon decided to leave the Dothraki to Davos and Gendry and took aside one of the Unsullied – 'Blue Sword', as this one called himself, though the blade at his side was ordinary grey steel. Jon had long ago stopped wondering about the names. He had the soldier relay instructions to the Unsullied were they could find accommodation. Then he sent him back outside to survey the Dothraki, who were to set up their camp in the winter town. Jon had his doubts about how well that was going to work. The Unsullied nodded and headed back out into the storm without complaint.

Then Jon looked up and spied the figure on the wooden balcony, who was overlooking the scene. Her auburn hair seemed almost black in the gloom of the falling snow as she surveyed the groups of Dothraki and Unsullied. He wondered what she was thinking. He'd given Sansa a warning of what was coming in advance, but still; how did you prepare for something like this?

After giving a few last instructions to Davos, Jon made his way up to the balcony.

For a second, he was thrown back in time and he thought he was seeing Catelyn Stark leaning on the parapet: Standing up here, Sansa looked every bit the Lady of Winterfell. Her posture seemed to radiate an authority that Jon had never really noticed before. She wore a thick wolf skin cloak and fur boots, her hair falling in a long braid behind her back. Her face was a mask of controlled worry, taking in everything that was going on below her. And, to Jon's great relief, Littlefinger was not at her side. He did not feel in the mood of dealing with that man now. His sister, though he loved her, could be difficult enough by herself.

To Jon's surprise, Sansa pulled him into a hug when he stepped up to her. She looked relieved to see him. "It's good to see you well, Jon."

"Likewise." He pulled back. "Is everything alright?"

"As alright as it can be." Sansa gestured for her guards to move away. Once they were out of earshot, she allowed herself to let her worry shine through a little more: "Our grain cellars are filled, but I don't know how long they will last, especially now. We've had hardly any ravens come through, and the ones that do bring no good news. Every house is fighting this winter for themselves; we won't receive any more help from them. And the men are getting nervous in this storm." She gave Jon a pointed look: "Some say it's the wrath of the Gods for allying with a foreigner queen. A usurper no less."

Jon frowned: "You don't really believe that, do you?"

" _I_ don't. But this", Sansa gestured down to the Dothraki, "will not help ease their conscience. You won't have it easy keeping all of them in line. I'm starting to wonder whether this alliance was worth it." She saw Jon about to protest and interrupted: "Look; all I'm saying is that you have to be careful what you say. And do."

Jon laughed grimly: "Well. What else is new?"

Sansa gave a real smile for the first time. After a moment, Jon found himself smiling, too. He was reminded that his sister did have a sense of humour underneath the new authoritative demeanour. He was glad they could still share a private joke amidst all this tension. And it felt good to slip off the King in the North aspect for a moment.

"Arya and Bran?" Jon inquired. He looked around, as if they might be hiding somewhere.

"Bran is in the Gods Wood." Did Jon imagine it or was Sansa looking uncomfortable as she said it? It was just a moment, then his sister had herself back under control: "Who knows where Arya is. She doesn't like to announce what she's up to."

Jon had to laugh: "No, truly not." That was one of the things he imagined would never change.

He was a little nervous. It felt almost unreal to be able to meet Arya again after all this time. He wondered what she looked like now. He wondered what she would say when she met him as the King in the North. Nothing very respectful, he was sure.

Gods, he missed her.

But for now, he, Sansa and Daenerys needed to prepare the war. His smile dimmed: "Any news from the Wall?"

"No dead men yet, no." The Lady of Winterfell wrinkled her nose, like she still found the very thought hard to believe. "The last thing we heard, the Wildlings are now manning three of the abandoned castles along the wall. And Eastwatch, but you know that already." The look she gave Jon once again reminded him an awful lot of her mother: "What in the world were you thinking, leading that expedition beyond the Wall? You are the King in the North!"

 _I always though a king would have to justify himself_ less _than a bastard_ , Jon thought glumly. Aloud he said: "It needed to be done. We only convinced Cersei with the help of the wraith we brought back. Her armies are marching north to help us."

Sansa frowned sceptically. "I'll be convinced of that when I see it. And _you_ ," she stabbed him in the chest, "are missing the point. Why are you insisting to do everything yourself? You have men you could have sent in your stead. That's what kings _do_! What if you had been killed out there? What would have become of the North then?"

"That's just why I needed to go!" Jon said in annoyance. In the back of his mind, he registered that Sansa was in honesty more concerned about him than the troop's morale. He decided not to mention how very close he had come to death multiple times. "If I won't do the things I ask my men to do, why should they follow me?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. It looked very un-ladylike, and Jon was pretty sure he'd never seen her do that before. Yes; times had definitely changed.

"You are impossible." she established. "You will be the most beloved dead King in the North there ever was."

"Don't get jealous."

"No wonder Baelish didn't try to manipulate you. He'd never gotten through your thick skull."

"Thanks." Jon frowned. "Speaking of him; where is Littlefinger? I hope you are keeping an eye on him."

Sansa smiled darkly: "Not really. You've missed a lot." She took Jon's arm before he could inquire. "We'll discuss all that later. For now, we have to find a way to accommodate all these men you brought." She glanced over his shoulder, at the motley group of Unsullied, Northmen and Dothraki that filled out the courtyard. "And to prevent them from killing each other instead of the enemy."

"That would be good." Jon agreed.


End file.
